


Whatever Gets You Thru The Night (It's Alright, It's Alright)

by Savageandwise



Series: Out of the Blue or Out of Sight [1]
Category: Elton John - Fandom, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Dress Up, M/M, Sexual Content, just fun, lost weekend, not necessarily what i think happened in real life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 07:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19763926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: During Lost Weekend John and Elton try on clothes and talk about love.





	Whatever Gets You Thru The Night (It's Alright, It's Alright)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the crap summary.  
> I'm a little out of practice with Beatles stuff and writing in general. It's been a tough time. Elton is my new obsession and he fits right in. Let me know what you think.

Elton has row after row of outrageous shoes, some of them over six inches high with stacked, glittering platform heels. They're every colour of the rainbow from scarlet to emerald green to cobalt to gold, gleaming with newness and money. He has a wall of hat boxes filled with every style hat known to mankind. Bowlers and Stetsons, fedoras and boaters, sun hats and baseball caps. There's a drawer full of silk scarves and a drawer full of wrist watches, each more costly than the other, and several drawers full of fantastical glasses. He has a whole closet full of jackets made of creamy cashmere and crisp white linen, satin so shiny he can see his reflection in it, brocade crusted over with rocaille beads and metallic thread, every material under the sun. They're studded with rhinestones, embroidered in gold and silver; sequins spell out the name "Elton John" in letters four inches tall.

John reaches out to stroke the sleeve of a velvet blazer. Elton plucks a gleaming silver cape from the depths of the wardrobe and drapes it around John's shoulders with a flourish.

"I feel like a superhero," John says, twirling the cape like a toreador. 

"You don't need the help," Elton says admiringly. He puts on a floppy felt hat trimmed in feathers and pulls the brim down low. "You think they were going to pay to see fat Reggie Dwight from Pinner wearing jeans and a T-shirt?" He stabs his thumb at his chest. 

He's wearing an orange T-shirt emblazoned with some logo John can't read beneath the bib of his striped denim overalls. His shoes are relatively plain despite the platform heels. He would look almost ordinary but for the large glittering glasses that frame his face.

"I'd pay to see Reggie Dwight in the pelt," John says with a sly smile. 

"Oh, would you?" The tip of Elton's nose is pink with pleasure. "You should join me. We'll do part two of your 'Two Virgins' shoot."

John holds up a finger in warning but smiles, then strips off the cape and tosses it onto the sofa. He tries on a fox fur, soft as a sigh, a few shades darker than Elton's hair. He pulls the collar up against his cheeks. He asked to see Elton's wardrobe thinking it might be easier to have a conversation here without everyone listening in. 

"Elton and I," John said to May, clasping the other man's arm, "are going to play dress-up. You're not invited."

May didn't protest, she rarely does. He wants to ask Elton how he manages to live the way he does, almost openly queer. Or at least more openly than John ever dared live. Certainly more honestly than Paul.

Elton has a whole entourage of pretty, well-dressed young men, flattering him and fetching things for him. He saw Elton watching him the other night in that club, watching as John let those men flatter him and stroke his hair. They even gave him a girl's name: Christine. John's been flirting with the queer scene since leaving New York, since his marriage spontaneously combusted. He's come to realise there are beautiful men everywhere, men perfectly willing to do whatever John wants. He's also come to realise that though it's easy enough to fuck a legion of girls without comparing them to Yoko, he can barely look at another man without thinking of Paul. 

He likes Elton, though. Liked him almost at once; his naughty, occasionally cruel humour; his quick smile and loud laugh. He can be pensive too, aloof, and in those odd fleeting moments, Elton reminds John of Eppy. Other times he thinks the flamboyant young singer is an entirely new breed. Without the glittering shoes and splashy clothes he's stocky, pale and soft-looking. He's clever in a shrewd way, and when he gets angry he reminds John of Paul. The way his mouth narrows, his nostrils flare; the way he drops expletives like bombs, each one precisely aimed. There are differences, of course. When enraged, Elton's voice goes slightly gravelly; he draws out the words so they really sink in. John's only seen Elton angry once so far, when some fan at the Troubadour grabbed him like a piece of meat. John liked the flash-fire display of anger. It always took Paul far too long to show what he really felt.

Elton pets John like he's a cat. "I've got the same coat in white and a jacket with a silver fox collar," he says, his hand sliding over the fur and settling at John's hip.

"Yoko’s got a special room for her fur coats. They like to be kept cold."

Elton drops his hand abruptly. John supposes that when attempting to seduce a man, one ought not mention one's wife. John takes off the coat and flings it to the floor like it's a striptease show, then he starts on the buttons of his shirt. Elton looks shocked for a split second, and then a smile lights up his face like a burst of sunshine after a summer storm. 

"Pick out something fabulous," John commands, pulling off his shirt and letting it fall.

After a drawn-out pause and some dramatic contemplation Elton pulls out a bomber jacket made of shiny white fabric, snowy plumage, pearls and ribbons jutting from the shoulders. The extravagant decoration reminds John of angel's wings. He pulls the jacket on, zipping it shut over his bare chest. 

"Quite heavy, isn't it?" John asks, doing an Elvis dance step complete with a pelvic thrust. "How do you play piano in this?" He wheels his arms back and mimes striking the keys. 

Elton leans in and grabs hold of the zipper, pulls it down to John's navel. "The trick is to ooze sex appeal."

"Clever trick," John says. He pulls a scarlet feather boa from the closet and wraps it around Elton's neck. 

"Yes, I have a full assortment of tricks in my arsenal...originally, they thought I wasn't attractive enough to be a star. So I had to come up with ways to make them look at me," Elton says a trifle smugly, plucking a stray bit of fluff from between his lips.

John tugs the jacket closed self-consciously. He knows all about that. He knows about pushing the bread to one side of his plate and trying to ignore it. He knows about fad diets and wearing long sleeves at the beach because some journalist called him fat. John drops his hands and the jacket falls open again. He thinks Elton would be magnetic even without the gimmicks. 

"They thought Bernie was prettier, figured he ought to be the singer." Elton grins. "Man can't carry a tune to save his life," he says affectionately.

"You and Bernie…" John begins.

"Partners," Elton says firmly. John wonders if he can hear a hint of regret in his voice. "Friends. Good friends. Brothers." He lets the word hang there a moment before continuing. "You and...and Paul…" 

"Partners. Brothers. Rivals," John says slowly.

Star-crossed lovers, he'd say, voice dripping with sarcasm, if he was in a mood. For a moment there they'd been so close there wasn't a word for what they were. Paul was the yardstick with which he measured everyone else in his life. And found them lacking.

Elton nods politely. "As songwriters, you two are legends," he says. Then he wrinkles his nose, sticks out his tongue and laughs. "I sound like a wanker."

John laughs along with him. "When I heard 'Your Song' I said it was the first fresh sound since Beatlemania," he says. 

"Rolling Stone called it _McCartney-esque_ ," Elton says, pride and embarrassment vying for the upper hand in his voice. 

John likes the way Elton's emotions are written all over his face, plain as daylight.

"That was either a great compliment or a deadly insult," John jokes. 

"We were flattered," Elton says somewhat peevishly.

There's a kind of nakedness to Bernie's lyrics and a purity to Elton's vocal. A conversational casualness. John thought of Paul when he heard the song, his chest growing tight, tears pricking his eyes. It transported him to a time before The Beatles, when it was just John and Paul bent over their guitars, fretting over chords and puzzling out lyrics. Two lads in Liverpool before the world stopped making sense.

"I really like the bit...excuse me forgetting...how does it go? Excuse me forgetting..?"

"But these things I do. You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue," Elton recites dutifully.

"Brilliant bit of lyric, that."

"Bernie," Elton says proudly, "is a poet."

"Who is it for? 'Your Song'? Surely a song like that…"

John thinks back to his own catalogue of songs, to every tune he ever wrote with someone special in mind. Those songs sparkled with life.

"He said it's about no one in particular." Elton shrugs.

John narrows his eyes at Elton speculatively and watches as a dull flush washes over his cheeks.

"Who were you thinking of when you wrote the melody?"

"Bernie," Elton says at once. "I mean his words, of course. That's how we do it. He writes the words and afterwards I set it to music."

John can't help think Elton's quite handsome like this, his colour so animated, talking about someone he's clearly besotted with. 

"Paul and I used to write face-to-face in the beginning, and then we'd write alone and pass it on for the other one to fiddle about with until it sounded the way it was supposed to. I don't know what he does now...record as is like a fucking school kid writing his essay on the bus before class."

Elton smiles politely. "We could never write face-to-face. We're both far too self-conscious."

"Paul and I," John says impulsively. "Yeah. If that's what you were asking."

John takes off the jacket and hangs it up awkwardly. When he turns back, Elton's staring at him with a strange gentleness in his eyes. John grabs a brightly-coloured silk dressing gown from the back of a chair and slips it on. It smells slightly unwashed, but not unpleasantly so; the ghost of whatever perfume Elton is wearing hangs about it.

"It must have been difficult," Elton says at last.

John shrugs. It was what it was. He wishes he could tell him everything. Just once tell someone how it really was. But even though Elton might be able to understand better than some, he's still got it all arse-backwards. Whatever John and Paul were, it's not what Elton and John Reid are. Sometimes, even now, when John looks in the mirror, he sees Paul's face. He sees Elton now, standing behind him in the huge gold-framed mirror on the dressing table. 

"It was a different time," John says. "A different place."

He walks to the wall of shoes and picks up a metallic green platform boot spangled with gold stars. He holds the sole against the bottom of his own boot. Elton's feet are quite a bit smaller. He puts the boot back reluctantly. Elton has removed his shoes and picks out a pair of red glittery boots at least four inches tall. 

"There's no place like home, eh, Dorothy?" John says, as Elton puts the shoes on and kicks his leg up like a Rockette. 

"Fuck home," Elton says plainly. "This is the place to be. It's different when you're somewhere new. I heard you two hooked up the other day."

Hooked up. They jammed together, coked out of their minds. John has a vague memory of Paul's hand on his thigh, of bending his head to press his nose to Paul's neck. "He dropped in, yeah. We made some music. We made a lot of noise, anyway."

He sits down in front of the dressing table, right on the edge of the chair. Elton sits on the floor, removes his sparkly shoes. His socks are striped yellow and black like a bumble bee. 

"It must have felt good," Elton says carefully.

He pressed his shoulder against Paul's, felt the solidness of his body. He tried to think of the last time he felt like this, anchored in the world, like a real person. With Yoko, in the early days. And before that, all his memories are of Paul, Paul, Paul.

"It felt alright," John says. "You can't fix a thing once it's broken."

"At least you had it once, though. You were lucky." There's a harsh undertone in Elton's voice that John picks up on at once. A poison dart.

John narrows his eyes. He can't decide if Elton's directness is annoying or charming. He lifts his foot onto his knee and pulls on the heel of his boot slightly. He shouldn't have worn new boots without having them stretched first. His vanity is going to kill him one of these days.

"Take off your shoes if you like," Elton says.

"My shoes?" John asks, looking down at his foot self-consciously, puts it down and scuffs the heels of his tooled boots in the shag rug. 

"New boots. You must have blisters the size of grapefruits. You shouldn't have worn them all day straight away," Elton says, sounding a bit like a school master. That reminds him of Paul as well. "I have people to break them in for me."

"My feet are a bit sore," John admits. The sudden change of topic is jolting, so much so, that he forgets he's a bit annoyed at Elton.

"I know a lot about shoes," Elton says apologetically. "I also never learned to shut my big fat mouth. I should mind my own business."

"I did ask about Bernie first," John says magnanimously.

Elton waves his words away. "I'm always leaping first, thinking later. Can you believe I was shy as a lad?" When he smiles, he looks like a naughty child; his whole face lights up and his tongue pokes out between his lips. John imagines pressing the tip of his tongue to Elton's.

"I never learned to shut my big mouth, either. That's why they want to deport me," he says.

"To big mouths," Elton says, holding out a make-believe glass for John to toast.

"Big mouths," John says, knocking his hand against Elton's.

Then he reaches down to pull off the boots, wincing a bit as he does. Elton sinks to his knees and puts his hands on John's ankle with a nervy side-eyed glance. He works the boot off, the air hissing out of his mouth as if he's in pain rather than John.

"Probably best to just be brutal about it. Get the pain over with," John says, looking down at Elton's thinning red hair. 

He looks up, flashes a gap-toothed grin, eyes wide behind outrageous jewelled frames. "That's what he said," he says without batting an eyelash. His lashes are thick and fawn-coloured.

He pulls the boots off without further ado, one after the other. Then he takes John's foot in his hand and peels off his sock. 

"Those Beatle boots must have been uncomfortable to perform in," Elton says, resting John's right foot against his thigh as he takes off the other sock.

John feels flustered but charmed. Looks down at his pale, thin foot on the striped denim of Elton's overalls. "We got used to it. They weren't those skyscrapers you put on. And we weren't dancing and jumping. Just bobbing our heads like idiots."

Elton presses his fingers to the blister on one heel gently. The pain is exquisite. "It's still whole, that's good. You didn't look like idiots. You looked like gods. I saw your Christmas show in the Hammersmith Odeon, must have been '63."

John nods. "Those shows…" he begins, rolling his eyes. Then he sees Elton's face fall and quickly changes his tune, "...but they could be a laugh, too."

"I thought the comedy bits were gold," Elton says, beaming.

John is used to that part, the admiration, that grovelling thing they all do, when they are stars in their own right. Even Mick, despite all his strutting and posturing. John wiggles his toes against Elton's thigh. "I'm inconsolable over the fact that your feet are smaller than mine. But then I'd probably break my neck prancing around in six inch tall heels."

"They're not all tall, you know," Elton says defensively. "I'm not a strapping northern lad like yourself. If I want to make an impression, I need all the help I can get."

"Strapping!" John says, his eyebrows shooting up in amusement.

"Yes, you're quite...well, you know what I mean." 

Elton's hand is still on John's foot, his thumb absently sliding over his ankle bone. He wonders if Elton is hoping to make him uncomfortable or if he's clean forgotten he's still fondling his foot. Maybe it's all a game of chicken to him, and he's trying to see how far he can go before John pulls away. He and Paul played this game for years, he's a dab hand at it.

"Tell me," John demands.

Elton traces the veins on John's foot. He has a number of rings on his stubby fingers; John is mesmerised by their glitter. 

"You're pretty fucking fantastic," he says softly, suddenly shy.

"Fantastic." John rolls his eyes but can't help blushing with pleasure. "I think you need a new prescription," he says, leans in to slide Elton's glasses off, ignoring his sounds of protest. "Do you even need them or is it just part of your disguise?"

John takes off his own glasses and sets them down on the dressing table. 

"Well, yes. I do need them," Elton says, finally letting go of John's foot and reaching out for his glasses.

John holds them up above his head teasingly and then he puts them on and turns to assess himself in the mirror. The jewelled frames are massive and he thinks he looks quite foolish wearing them. It's funny how they suit Elton down to the ground while John looks like a clown. Elton plucks his glasses off the bridge of John's nose, but he doesn't put them back on. Instead, he sets them down beside the circular pair on the table and then turns back to face John.

"When I was a boy I used to wear the sort of glasses Buddy Holly had. I didn't need them, I just wanted to look like him. Ruined my eyesight," Elton explains.

John grins at that. "Is that what happened?" he asks. "My Aunt Mimi used to say it was the wanking did it."

Elton throws back his head and laughs. "Can't have helped, either." 

"Buddy Holly made it a bit more stylish, but I never wanted to wear my glasses. I preferred stumbling about blind. They used to have to lead me around or I'd walk into walls," John says.

He recalls the feeling of Paul's hand on his elbow, the way he manipulated him around a room. He has a recurring dream: he's stumbling on a vast stage, the lights so bright all he can see is white. He gropes the air, trying to take Paul's hand, but he's always just out of reach.

"Beauty is pain, eh?" Elton asks, his voice pulling John back into the present.

He reaches down and grasps Elton's chin, looks down at his upturned face intently. Just like the song says, he can't figure out the colour of Elton's eyes. Sometimes they're blue, sometimes green. Sometimes they're almost hazel. They're kind and deeply intelligent.

"See something you like?" Elton asks, tilting his head to one side coquettishly.

"Can't see a fucking thing," John answers somewhat untruthfully.

"You're not missing much, take it from me."

"Has anyone ever told you..?" John begins, running his thumb along Elton's bottom lip.

"...I need to shut my gob? All the time," Elton interrupts him. "Best way to go about it…"

John pulls his chin sharply and kisses him hard, his lips landing on the corner of his mouth. Elton lets out a soft, nervous giggle. He lifts his hands to grab hold of John's hair. Then he kisses him again, full on the lips this time. John opens his mouth and Elton slides his tongue against his hungrily, shamelessly. Like he tangles tongues with men all the time. And in truth, he probably does.

"That's the ticket," Elton says breathlessly when they break apart. 

He slips an arm under the silk dressing gown and pulls John down from the chair. Elton's clasp is sturdy–this is a man who does handstands atop a piano–and at the feeling of his hairy arm against his bare skin, John feels himself go rock-hard. They're on their knees on the floor, pressed against each other. John clenches his hands on the straps of Elton's dungarees. Elton's lips are on his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck. He has some vague idea he's got to remove the ridiculous denim garment first, but can't for the life of him remember how to go about it. Elton seems to have the same idea. He unfastens the straps and lets the bib fall. Then he slides his palm against the front of John's jeans, soft first, and then harder. His breath is shallow, he pulls off the silk dressing gown and fumbles at John's zipper, and kissing him, John slides his tongue over Elton's teeth to feel the gap there. And it's all happening at once, like magic. 

John pulls the orange T-shirt over Elton's head, bends to put his lips to his chest and licks the hair there. He inhales the scent of the man: sun and sweat and marijuana. Elton manages to open John's jeans and slips his hand under his pants to grasp his erection. John can feel the metal bands of his many rings as Elton squeezes him, his thumb working its way over the head of his prick. He wants to ask Elton to suck it. A sharp shiver runs through him when he pictures Elton's wide mouth around his cock, but he doesn't know how to ask for it without sounding like an inexperienced hack. He lets out a soft groan instead.

He remembers pulling down his trousers for Brian in Barcelona. He remembers wrapping his legs around Paul's waist and silently willing him to push himself in to the hilt. Paul hadn't complied. John had never asked. He imagines Elton taking him from behind. The soft fleece of his chest hair against his back, his rings cutting into his skin where he grips him, holding him down. John sighs into Elton's open mouth. Elton pulls him down to the floor, onto the discarded fox fur jacket. He's kneeling over John, working his jeans–May's jeans–down over his hips. Almost as an afterthought, Elton presses his lips to John's hip bone; waves of lust ripple over his skin. John wriggles out of the garment and kicks it off awkwardly. 

He tilts his hips up, rubs himself against Elton's fumbling hand. Elton's dungarees slide down his hips revealing red cotton briefs. The tip of his stiff cock is peeking out over the elastic waistband invitingly. John reaches up and grabs hold of the red cotton and pulls the garment down to Elton's knees, dragging the denim overalls along. They're naked now, the fox fur jacket luxuriant beneath them as they caress each other, each touch curious, gentle, almost shy. Elton seems larger than life without his clothing. His arms, legs and chest are covered in thick reddish hair. The undeniable maleness of him thrills John. His legs are black and blue all over, marks likely sustained during his insane, over-the-top performances, and John can't suppress a soft exclamation of sympathy. He dips down to kiss Elton's kneecaps.

"John," Elton says softly, his voice wavering. 

"You ought to be more careful," John chides him gently, slides the tip if his tongue over the bruises.

Elton takes hold of John's chin and pulls him up to kiss his mouth. There's a recklessness to the way Elton kisses, an unhinged quality that nearly sends John over the edge. He curls his fingers against the hair on Elton's chest, then flattens his hand, slides it over his stomach. John can feel him twitch self-consciously for a moment, and then he lets go and sighs, kisses John over and over in a slow, dizzying fashion. He sucks in his breath sharply as John traces the line of fuzz that extends from Elton's belly button down to his hard cock. John grips his erection firmly and strokes it once experimentally.

"Oh, Christ," he says. His lips, pressed to John's, are trembling.

It's thrilling to cause such a reaction in Elton, who seems so much more knowledgeable than he is.

"I used to…" Elton begins. 

John is stroking him steadily and he can't seem to get the words out. 

"Oh, God," Elton moans and then clears his throat, grips John's shoulders and slides his hand up to rest at the nape of his neck. "I used to listen to your records and toss myself off to you," he says at last in a low voice. "I'd imagine…"

"What?" John gasps. 

He pushes John away purposefully. For one horrible second John thinks Elton is rejecting him, and then the words sink in. He falls back on the glossy fox fur, rubs himself against the sleek garment like a cat in heat. Elton's hand is on John's cock and then his mouth, his tongue flicking over the tip, and it's so glorious he can't think straight. It feels even better than he'd imagined, Elton sucking him off, stroking the shaft of his cock. He can't remember the last time he's been this hard, this incoherent with excitement. Elton slides his hand downward, cradles John's balls. He runs a fingernail over John's arsehole abruptly and John arches his back and shoots into Elton's mouth unceremoniously, laughing and cursing as he does.

Afterwards Elton wipes his mouth on the cuff of his fox fur jacket and lies down next to John. Through the haze of pleasure John can sense he wants to ask him something. He turns his head, rubs his mouth against Elton's shoulder, bites down teasingly.

"Dreams come true," Elton says with a small laugh. " _Come_ being the key word here."

"You're a romantic," John says, means for it to sound mocking but it comes out tender.

He rubs his limbs against Elton's. He likes how hairy his legs are, how muscular. He likes how slender his own legs look in comparison.

"I didn't even have proper sex till I was twenty-three. Not properly," Elton explains. "I tried to kill myself when I was twenty-one. So...you know, I could have died a virgin."

John wants to ask him about it but isn't sure how. He's taken aback by the honesty. Elton walks his index and middle finger along John's thigh like a soldier marching. John finds himself utterly charmed by the childish gesture.

"I was about twelve the first time," he says, rolling onto his side to look at Elton's face. Elton's eyebrows shoot up, they're as thick as his hair is thinning. "Alright, I was fourteen. It was awful, but I was very proud of myself."

"A...a girl?" Elton manages to stutter.

"Yes," John laughs nervously. "Of course."

"What about...when did you...you know..?" 

Elton's skin is patchy with ruddy spots. John bites back a laugh. It's amusing how embarrassed Elton seems talking about it when he just swallowed John's come without even a grimace.

"When did I realise I liked boys as well? I suppose I always knew."

He always knew. He'd given Pete his pocket money to let him touch his prick when they were just lads. Paul at fifteen, sat at the piano, leaning back against John when he tried to intimidate him. It felt like his blood was fire in his veins.

"Do you like girls better?" Elton asks.

He traces the freckles on John's shoulder absently. He's more physically affectionate than Paul or Yoko. Playfully possessive.

"I'm not sure," John answers truthfully. "I like people." 

He places his index finger against Elton's forehead and taps it once. _I like you_ , John thinks.

"Well, I'm decidedly queer," Elton says. He presses his mouth to John's as if making a point.

"Isn't it fabulous, baby?" John drawls, pulling Elton back into his arms. 

Elton is still hard, his cock digging into John's thigh, slick with desire. John wants to return the favour more than anything.

"Do you know what would be even more fabulous?" Elton asks before John can grab hold of his cock. "If we could continue this fascinating conversation in bed." 

"In bed, eh?" John says.

"As decadent as this is…"

"Like something out of Fellini," John interrupts him.

"...the bed is infinitely more comfortable," Elton finishes. His tone is very firm indeed, it's non-negotiable. A frisson of anticipation rips through John.

"Hey," he says, rolling to his feet. "Whatever gets you through the night."

Elton gets up and leads John out of the dressing room, his cock standing to attention, pointing the way to bed. 

"Mark my words. That's a number one song right there. Come Thanksgiving, I'll have you right where I want you," he says.

John wonders where exactly Elton wants him. He considers telling him the truth about Paul. That they'd been intimate but had drawn the line at buggery. They'd drawn no line. Neither of them had dared to bring it up. And then they were over. It's still Paul in his dreams. Paul pushing into him, his breath singing in his ear as he thrusts. John climbs into bed and takes Elton's hand, pulls him on top of him. 

"Ooh!" Elton exclaims in a camp little voice as their bodies collide. John laughs out loud with nerves and arousal.

He thinks if anyone can silence that dream, even for a moment, it's this man. He's ungainly, covered in hair and bruises. He's also graceful, strangely magnetic. Shy but fearless, larger than life but humble. And he's a laugh.

"Why wait till Thanksgiving?" John asks, wrapping his legs around Elton's waist.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from John's song Whatever Gets You Thru The Night. Elton bet him it would get to number one and it did, meaning John had to perform with him at Madison Square Garden on Thanksgiving. 
> 
> I'm reading Philip Norman's bio of Elton so some of this is researched some of it is fun.
> 
> Thank you to Twinka because you're lovely and I love you. Thank you.


End file.
